Unto You I Bequeath These Words
by Procrastinations
Summary: "The first time he left, you learned how to hate him." Rated T for a teeny-tiny swear word.


**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Everything you recognise (characters, settings etc.) are property of JK Rowling, not me.**

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><p>The first time he left, you learned how to hate him. You had had a blazing row: a petty squabble about who would be there to take care of Harry had turned into a fully-fledged argument, screaming at each other in whispers, the way you had learned to do from years of practice. Neither of you wanted to wake your child, and so you had taught yourself to argue in hushed undertones. Your anger is spurned from fear; his from resentment. You know he feels like you're jealous, that you want to be on the front line as well, but it's nothing to do with heroics. You're terrified that one day Padfoot or Moony or Wormtail will turn up not to check if you're okay, but with tears in their eyes and apologies on their lips. You cannot count the number of times you have daydreamed (day-nightmared?) about his death, each vision more vivid and more gruesome than the last. The first time he left, he had stared at you, eyes uncomprehending, and muttered something about how he didn't know you anymore. He had turned on the spot, Apparating to God-knows-where, and you had vomited on the carpet. Fear and loathing lent you a strength you didn't realise you possessed, and in that moment you realised that sometimes you didn't recognise your own husband.<p>

(Of course, he had appeared twenty minutes later, eyes shining with tears unshed and promised never to put you through that again, but for twenty minutes you truly, viscerally despised him and everything that had come between you.)

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><p>The next time he left, he refused to say goodbye. "If I say goodbye," he had murmured fervently in her ear as Gideon Prewett stood in the doorway, waiting, "it implies that this is the last time I'll ever see you again. And that, Lily Potter, is bullshit. I <em>will<em> make it out alive. I promise." He was gone for eight days (which, in Order time, was nothing at all), and in that time you forced yourself to get out of bed, to take care of Harry. Peter dropped in occasionally, to discuss the problem of the traitor. Peter refused to believe the traitor was Sirius – 'how could he? He's rejected everything his family stood for, why should he go back on that?' – and, however reluctant he appeared to say it, believed the turncoat to be Remus. ('Come on, Lily, it makes sense. It has to be one of us; if it's not me, you, James or Sirius, who else could it be? Besides, Dumbledore's been sending him off to work with werewolves, maybe they've got to him.') You begrudged James this, as well – if he was there more often, you wouldn't have to talk of traitors or murder or war. You could simply _be_.

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><p>One night you are sat in the living room, watching your son dream, and he asks you what you're thinking about.<p>

"We could leave," you blurt out. "We could up and leave; go to any of your other houses, or buy another one abroad. We could go to Peru, America, Fiji. Harry could _live_, James. _We_ could live."

"Who says we're going to die?" He asks quietly, but you both know it's a silly question. The traitor, whoever it may be, is leaking more information to Voldemort, and you know it's only a matter of time before your position is compromised too. Peter is a good wizard, a good man, a Gryffindor, but he would probably break under torture. Then you will die, and Harry will die, and Voldemort, the egomaniacal bastard, will live.

You choose not to answer the question. "Think about it, James. We'd start up a whole new life with Dumbledore as the Secret-Keeper. We'd destroy him before he ever gets the chance to destroy us."

James sighs, rests his head on your shoulder. "If I could do that, Lily, I would. I'd do it in a heartbeat. But I can't. I couldn't bear to live with myself if Sirius or Remus or Peter was k-killed." He stutters over the last word, as he has done ever since Marlene McKinnon was murdered. More Order members have been killed; more friends slain. The names begin to blend together, making one mush of grief – . You wonder how long it will be until your name joins theirs.

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><p>The final time he leaves, you cannot save him. You know you are going to die from the moment you hear that mocking, courteous <em>knock-knock-knock <em>at the door, seconds before it is blasted away regardless. James's words echo in your ears, but all you can think is _Apparate to Sirius. Apparate to Remus. Apparate to – _

By the time you realise who the traitor is, you find yourself unsurprised and furious at yourself for not noticing earlier. Voldemort has placed anti-Apparition charms on the house. You yourself disconnected the Floo. There is no way to run, nowhere to hide. You hurtle up the stairs, tuck Harry into his crib, apologise to him for not being strong enough, not being brave enough, not being smart enough, not being perfect. You were a lousy mother (it scares you that you're already thinking in past tense). You hear the rhythmic thud of footsteps up the stairs, and realise that James has fallen, James has left. You wish you could write a eulogy for your son: _I bequeath all of these words unto you; I am sorry, I am sorry, I have failed._

You're not altogether there when the door to the nursery opens. You plead for Harry's life, and he laughs, granting you this last wish. The green light snakes from his wand –

And this, this is salvation.


End file.
